'THERE ARE MANY mysteries in Bali,' confides Wayan Kecug as we sit on a crude bench in his rice paddy, scouring the sky. As the light starts to fail, a small group of herons fly dart-like into the village and settle delicately into the upper branches of a tree. Within minutes, there are dozens, hundreds, thousands, and the trees are so thick with these wading birds, they appear to be covered in snow. The herons arrived in this tiny village near Ubud, the artistic heart of the island, in November 1965, and have remained ever since. Their numbers are estimated at around 15,000. No one knows why they came, and where they came from, but the superstitious residents believe they are a sign that this village just outside Petulu is blessed by the gods. We ask Wayan to tell of other mysteries, and he remembers the devastating eruption of Mount Agung to the east, which killed more than 1,000 in 1963. Preparations had been made for the holy Eksa Dasa Rudra ceremony at Besakih, Bali's most sacred temple, on the lower slopes of Agung. It was the first such ceremony, dedicated to protecting Bali from all ill-fortune, for more than 100 years, but many believed the priests had chosen an inauspicious date. Agung grumbled throughout the proceedings, and, days later, exploded. The disappearance of tourists this year has also mystified many in Bali, but not Wayan. 'The tourists have read about the troubles in Jakarta and other parts of Indonesia, and they are afraid to come,' he says. 'But Bali is safe.' He waves abstractly towards the small shed behind us, his 'studio', where exquisite carvings of herons gather dust. 'I can't sell my work, and I will soon be unable to pay the school fees for my children,' he complains. 'We need another blessing here.' Indeed, we are the only tourists in the village. The low season is May and June, but this year tourism has really plumbed the depths. We will hear the same story wherever we go. Which is why hiring a Toyota Kijang and driving around the island had seemed a great idea. The Balinese drive on the left, you can fill up with petrol for the equivalent of HK$50, and I had bargained hard to get a rental price of around $120 a day, with unlimited mileage. We could escape the well-documented horrors of Kuta, drive wherever we wanted, stop wherever we wanted, and relax. Not so. Driving in Bali is a nightmare. On this first night I will be so stressed out in this 'island paradise' I will be barely able to sleep - and there are five more days' driving ahead. Signposting of the bird sanctuary might have helped. The relevant sign on the main road from Ubud informs: 'Obyek Wisata Kokokan.' How many international tourists can read Indonesian? I had driven straight past, but on my first full day in Bali, I am already accustomed to being lost. Just getting out of Kuta, a stone's-throw from the airport, and beyond the main city of Denpasar, leaves the nerves jangling. Motorcyclists swarm like an army of ants, overtaking on both sides; signposts are virtually non-existent, or are so small that they are easily missed; sometimes they are obscured by verdant tropical vegetation. Few riders stop when traffic lights change to red; you take potluck at road junctions; stop to ask directions and you must wait an age to find a break in the conga-like line of traffic. Roadside manners evaporate as soon as Balinese mount their machines. No one gives way, so you must learn to be just as mean. Politeness will only cause confusion, throw a spanner in the works of a chaotic system that somehow works. Remarkably, there are few accidents. If a foreigner is involved in an accident, then it is his fault, regardless of the circumstances. He should not be on the road. He does not belong here and therefore, Balinese logic dictates, he must be to blame. I had wanted to take the scenic route to Ubud, the cultural capital of Bali, rich in artists, stone-masons, wood carvers, traditional dancers and musicians, along the quiet back-road from Singapadu to Sayan. The area is postcard pretty, women bent plucking rice in a rich patchwork quilt of paddy fields, water buffalo, tiny villages tucked away behind Hindu temples. Finding the road was, however, a matter of dogged perseverance punctuated by strings of expletives. Ubud, in spite of increasing development, is everything Kuta is not. The people here are gentler, untarnished. They have not yet been exposed to the wham-bang-thank-you-ma'am ruffians who fly into Kuta because it is cheap, and grab what they can. Tourists in Ubud visit art museums, craft workshops, take guided walks through the villages, go bird-watching, attend cookery classes, watch traditional dancing, learn meditation, or unwind with a full body massage in the side streets around Monkey Forest Road. In Kuta, the touts are relentless: 'Transport? Transport?'; 'Good food, eat here'; 'Batik, batik'; 'Nice girl, sir, with free hotel room'. The morbidly curious can even be guests at a cremation ceremony for a fee. In the lobby of Kuta's Holiday Inn, the travel desk offers cremation packages for about $109, including snacks and an air-conditioned coach. There is a $78 surcharge if guides who can speak German, French, Italian, Spanish or Japanese, are employed. The brochure advises (sic): 'To perform this ceremony will need some requirements, that is, funds and holy-day.' It doesn't mention another essential: a body. In Ubud, you aren't besieged by touts, and a simple thatched cottage, set in quiet gardens with a swimming pool just off the main street, with hot water, can cost only around $150, including breakfast for two. On our second day we drive beyond Petulu, through Tegalalang, about 15km north of Ubud, past kilometre after kilometre of roadside craft shops, making anything from wooden egg-cups to life-size horses carved from teak, and 'antique' stone deities. They even make didgeridoos. Coals to Newcastle for Australian tourists, who even get their favourite, Vegemite on toast, in Kuta cafes. The road here is so narrow that it is difficult to find somewhere to park - another reason not to take a self-drive vehicle. We visit wholesalers where all manner of intricately carved samples are marked at giveaway prices. Hard-faced dealers, Dutch, German and Italian, negotiate consignments to be shipped to Europe. The Balinese craftsmen must be paid a pittance. Teak and ebony is shipped to Bali from Sulawesi and Kalimantan in Borneo, to be metamorphosed into collectors' pieces by a small army of artisans. The carvings will fetch high prices in classy antique showrooms in Amsterdam, Berlin and Rome. No wonder Indonesia's forests are dwindling, I muse. On day three, we get nowhere near the sacred temple on the slopes of Mount Agung, which, at 1,730 metres, dwarfs all else on Bali. I get hopelessly lost in a web of side-roads. But we do manage, after a long, hard climb that has the engine screaming in protest, to reach the spectacular rim of Bali's other volcanic giant, Mount Batur, further north. We are besieged by all manner of hawkers and escape to the Lakeview Hotel, which is perched on the very lip of the crater. Batur was formed more than 30,000 years ago by a massive eruption, and four cones rise from the crater. It is still active, and has erupted around 20 times in the past 200 years, most recently in 1994. Far below, solidified rivers of lava that buried villages in their path, etch the horror story on the landscape. A buffet lunch on the terrace overlooking the crater and Lake Batur, costs the equivalent of $70. Cheap, but I remember a young waiter in Ubud, and feel guilty. He told us he left his home town on the north coast, Singaraja - our next destination - because he could not find work there. In Ubud he works from 6am to 9pm, seven days a week, for the equivalent of $70 a month. He has a tiny room on the premises and is given two meals a day. Few tourists realise how hard life can be for many who live here. Paradise lost? Paradise never found. Later, we edge down a narrow, twisting road to the floor of the crater several hundred metres below. Blocks of lava tower above us, and the road soon disintegrates into a jumble of potholes. A convoy of trucks loaded with volcanic debris adds to the danger, and we are forced to retreat. Some things are best seen from afar. It's a long, steep descent to Singaraja, once an important port for the Dutch colonialists. It is a city of 100,000, all of whom, it seems, own motorcycles. We are heading for Lovina beach to the west, which stretches for several kilometres and has been growing in popularity as a peaceful alternative to Kuta in the south. But there are few tourists. We are offered a cottage for the equivalent of $50, including breakfast for two. 'Please stay,' the owner implores. 'We'll go bankrupt. No one comes anymore.' But when she turns on the air-conditioner, the lights fuse, and a selfish resolve to have comfort and a hot shower extinguishes my feelings of sympathy. We drive on in the darkness, blinded by headlights, and eventually find what we want further afield at Kalibukbuk, but I'm so stressed out through driving that again, I sleep little. The highlight of this journey in the north has to be the 'holy hot springs' near the village of Banjar Tega, a short drive from Lovina for those who know the way, a convoluted journey for those who don't. It is virtually deserted. The spa has three pools set amid lush tropical vegetation, the slightly sulphurous water gushes from the mouths of stone guardians, and you can laze here for as long as you wish for the equivalent of $3. Lockers cost about $2, and a neatly dressed security guard watches over them, looking somewhat out of place in such a tranquil setting. Bali's only Buddhist monastery is nearby, but of course we can't find it. A drive to the central highlands and another volcano, Gunung Batukau, with its nearby lakes is a delightful day out, but be careful. Here the motorcyclists are as young as 10 years. On the way back to Lovina we stop at Murjasa Karsini's tiny roadside restaurant overlooking the rice paddies of the picturesque village of Bestala. I ask her why young children are allowed to ride motorbikes. 'Oh, there aren't many policemen around here,' she says. 'Because of the forest fires in Kalimantan, there is a shortage of cloves. The price has quadrupled and the local farmers now have lots of money. The children pester their parents for motorbikes, and they get them.' It was foolish to loiter here. Darkness falls soon after we leave. At Seririt we enter a one-way street, take a wrong turn and drive west by mistake. Lovina lies to the east. It takes an hour to find Kalibukbuk, blinded again by oncoming traffic. There are few street lights. Ubud draws us back like a magnet on the return journey south to Kuta. We want to stay in this magical town one more night. After another harrowing journey I meet a middle-aged masseur who is staying at our Ubud cottage complex. He works at the Ritz-Carlton in Oahu, Hawaii. 'You must have a massage in Ubud,' he advises. 'They give you a real working over. They have taught me a thing or two.' As I enter the Milano salon, an Australian tourist sprawls on a sofa, spaced out. 'That's the best massage I've ever had,' he says, dreamily. 'That's good to know,' I reply. 'I'm shattered. I've been driving around Bali for days, getting lost.' 'Taking the wheel yourself? You must be very brave.' 'No, just stupid.' We both burst into laughter. 'You know, I'll let you into a secret,' he confides. 'It's not much more expensive to hire a car with a driver.' And he's right. Graphic: bali29GFA
